All Along
by soulgyrl53
Summary: It's Christmas, and Mrs Hudson and John want a real tree. John goes in search of one...and hasn't returned. Sherlock is starting to worry.


CHAPTER 1

December 22nd

"So then…what do you think?" asked John Watson, as he placed a steaming cup of Darjeeling in front of his friend and flat mate, Sherlock Holmes.

"Sorry…what do I what about…what," Sherlock questioned, a slightly apologetic look on his face.

John threw his hands up in the air and turned away exasperated. "Did you even hear a _word_ of what I just said, or have I been talking to myself for the last fifteen minutes?"

Sherlock blew on his cup before taking a cautioned sip of the tea. He set the cup back in its saucer and turned to face John. "I _am_ sorry…it's just this… case we've been working on. I'm _missing_ something…something _important_. I just can't…see what it is. Yet. What is it you were asking me? Something about Mrs. Hudson?"

John sighed, gave Sherlock's shoulder a slight pat before sitting opposite him at the table. "What I was asking, was for your opinion on getting a real Christmas tree this holiday. Mrs. Hudson has expressed an interest in wanting a live tree herself…small sized, of course, and I offered to fetch it for her and thought maybe I could pick one out for us as well."

Sherlock gave John a wide grin. "Well then, I _suppose_ that would be agreeable. Although, … um, just how do you propose to get two Christmas trees back here to Baker Street from a tree lot? They wouldn't fit in a cab and you can hardly handle both of them on the tube."

"Stamford's offered me the use of his truck. Problem solved. I don't suppose you'd actually want to go with me?"

Sherlock drained the last of his tea and stood. "You suppose right. No…no John, I'll leave the tree fetching to you if you don't mind. I'm sure you'll bring one home to rival that of Rockefeller Center. I really need to do a bit more research on this case."

"As to that," John started. "You said the case _we've_ been working on when I thought we agreed to not take anything else on until after the holidays. So what is this about then?"

Sherlock walked over to the small table in the living room, sat, and opened his computer. "It's not really a _new_ case. It's the one about the vanishing mum that we never really solved."

John took his spot in his easy chair and opened the Evening Standard. "I thought Lestrade…and everyone else….was content with the conclusions we came to on that. _Why_ are you dredging it all back up? And why now"

Sherlock steepled his hands and rested his chin on the fingertips. "Because _I_ was never satisfied with the conclusion we came to. Lestrade was too eager to close the case and was far _too_ willing to accept _any_ answers in order to do so. It was just wrong, all wrong. The woman's belongings were found in a place they had no business being. There's too much of a gap in the story. I've got to…finish it."

John sat the paper down and chuckled softly. "Well, I suppose there's no stopping you. Once you've set your mind on something you turn a bit maniacal about it if I try, as well I know. And don't give me that look. You know I'm right. Anyway, I'm taking the tube to Mike's tomorrow after lunch to pick up the truck. I'll head out looking for a tree straight away. I don't suppose we have an ax or a saw of some sort lying about somewhere, do we?"

Sherlock looked up quizzically at his partner. "An ax or a saw? What on either do you need either of them for if you're picking a tree out of a lot?"

"Well, in case I decide to go to one of those cut-your-own tree farms. I may do. Haven't been to one of them in ages. Probably not since I was a kid. We always got our trees from a place like that. Of course, Harry and I could never settle on one so our mum always ended up picking one out. And dad just knocked us about the head for fighting. I honestly don't know if Harry and I ever agreed on _anything_."

"There's an ax in the basement. Mrs. Hudson would know about the saw. I may be up late. You don't mind do you?"

"Do I have a choice? Look, I'm going to go have a shower and I just might turn in early if you're going to be so occupied anyway."

"And….you're upset with me again," Sherlock muttered.

"No, Sherlock, I'm not upset. I'm tired. The clinic was insanely busy this week. No end of kids with runny noses, coughing all over the place. Half a dozen cases of pneumonia, two of which ended with the wretched souls going to hospital. Three instances of strep throat and one suspected case of meningitis. If you weren't sick when you came into the clinic you probably were when you left."

"Sounds…horrific," Holmes answered, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

"It is what it is. Anyway, do you need to use the bathroom before I get in the shower?"

"No…no I'm good. Actually, I may not be here when you come out. I'll be back before too late though."

"Right then, "John replied, and made his way to the bathroom.

Chapter 2

December 23rd

Martha Hudson smiled as she carried a tray laden with various goodies for "her boys" up the stairs to 221B. They were the sons she never had and the three were fiercely loyal to each other. The holiday season always found her especially cheerful and she had put together an extra-special lunch for Sherlock and John. Her famous chicken salad on homemade rolls, pear and mandarin compote, and fresh baked scones with a pot of lemon curd from her own recipe. She'd send John down to fetch the tea tray.

"Hoo hoo,"she said, giving the door leading into the kitchen a swift knock before letting herself in. "Lunch, boys. John, it's quite nippy out there. I thought you'd better have something substantial in you before you go tree shopping. The wind! Bites right through you. And that snow we got overnight. Only a few inches here, but some of the rural area's got close to a foot. Make sure you dress warm."

"You're too good to us, you know," answered John rising out of his easy chair. "I'll get Sherlock. He's upstairs having a nap, although if you ask him what he's doing he'll say research. He's been 'researching' all morning. The back of his eyelids apparently as every time I've checked in on him he was sawing logs."

Mrs. Hudson smiled. "He will have his funny little ways, as well we know."

"Umm, some of them not so funny," John quipped.

"Perhaps, but would we really want him any other way? I mean it's what makes him…well….Sherlock."

"You've got me there. I'll go fetch him. You will join us, won't you?"

"I suppose I could. I don't want to intrude."

"Nonsense! We'd be delighted. And after all, you were kind enough to provide it."

"Well then, I'll go get the tea tray while you're getting Sherlock. Be back in a flash."

* * *

"Mrs. Hudson, you've outdone yourself again," remarked John, leaning back in his chair.

Sherlock shook his head in agreement. "Yes, that lemon curd was excellent. Thank you."

Their landlady stood, gathered the dirty things onto a tray, and carried them to the sink. "You're most welcome, boys. What would I do without you?"

Sherlock gave a slight smirk. "You obviously managed quite well before we came along, so I think you'd be perfectly fine."

At that, he felt a sharp blow on his right shin and jumped just a fraction.

He looked across at John who was displaying the slightest shake of his head, a look of stern consternation on his face. He mouthed, "Not necessary" to his companion.

Sherlock quickly cleared his throat. "But of course we're very grateful for all you do for us, Mrs. Hudson."

She gave a giggle as she commenced to fill the sink with soapy water. "Oh, I know that. It's just such a …well...comfort knowing your just above me should I ever need help. Even if we don't see each other for days."

"All in all, it's a perfect arrangement," John stated. He rose from the table. I'm off now, tree shopping. I'm going to grab my coat, gloves, and the ax. Anyone sure they don't need anything as long as I'll be out and about?"

Sherlock walked to, then opened, the fridge. "How's the milk situation? Oh…there's about two pints. That should suffice for now I'd think."

"Right then. I'll be off. Mrs. Hudson, thanks again and Sherlock, I would suppose I'd be back by, oh say…five or so."

"Five?" Sherlock repeated, genuinely puzzled. "It's only," and here he consulted his watch, "only ten minutes to one. You need four hours to purchase two trees? Where are you going, Norway?"

John rolled his eyes. "No, Sherlock, I'm not going to Norway! I just want to take my time and find the perfect tree, or trees, as it were. I want to find something nice for Mrs. Hudson and I'd prefer not to have a Charlie Brown one myself. I realize that sort of thing isn't of any importance to you, but indulge me, please! And if do decide on one I've got to chop down myself, well that will take a bit longer."

"Do be careful wielding ax's about," Mrs. Hudson started. "My friend Agatha Deerling's husband Nigel lost two toes one Christmas chopping down a tree. Although, he always was quite clumsy and not very athletic, and you're...well…use to that sort of thing. I mean, being in the army and all."

"Yes, yes," Sherlock muttered, and went to sit in his arm chair near the fire. "And I suppose I could look out the tree lights…or decorations…or something ….while you're gone. God knows I'm not going to make any more progress today on that _case_."

John cleared his throat. "Still time to change your mind and come with me…if you're afraid of being bored."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and gave an exaggerated "No"!

John donned his coat and gloves, grabbed the ax by the sofa, and headed towards the door.

"Ta-ta," he yelled as he descended the steps.

Chapter 3

"Why the hell is it so difficult to find a decent, bloody Christmas tree?" John Watson sputtered after he reached the confines of the truck, leaving yet another miffed owner without a tree from his lot. "That was the sixth place! I guess that's what happens when you wait until practically the last minute. All the good ones are taken. I don't need perfection, honestly I don't. I'd just like something without bloody gaping holes on every side! And you're not helping," he yelled at the radio, turning the switch and effectively cutting Bing Crosby off in the middle of "White Christmas".

He looked at the trucks clock. "Bloody hell, it's already four and I told Sherlock I'd be back at five. Bugger this! Alright, tree farm it is. Do or die, I guess." He consulted the list he had previously printed up and found that "Benjie Bottomly's Beauties- Tree Farm" was less than two kilometers away.

He gave a little snort. "Okay then, Benjie old chap, treated you at the clinic, didn't I? You've _got_ to have something for me!"

He pulled into the lot. A string of lights hanging on a small hut were blinking on and off. John entered the small building. No one was there but a large piece of cardboard was propped up on a desk with the message:

"Gone home for tea….house is less than a kilometer

away if you need me, otherwise...on your honor.

All trees are fifteen quid no matter the size.

Kindly put the correct amount into can here on the desk.

God bless and happy Christmas!"

John couldn't help but smile. But, he decided, he wasn't parting with any of his money before he had to see what old Benjie had to offer. He went back to the truck and followed the arrows pointing the way to the trees. He noticed the snow had started up again.

Chapter 4

Sherlock woke with a start, momentarily confused. The room had grown dark, the only light coming from the fireplace which, obviously, Mrs. Hudson had been kind enough to re-fuel before she left for her own flat after clearing up the lunch things. Sherlock yawned, shook his head, and rubbed the back of his neck which had grown stiff from being flung backwards on the chair for so long.

 _What time is it? Shouldn't John be back by now?_ Were his first thoughts.

He had removed his watch earlier, so he went to the kitchen to check the time on the microwave.

 _Six-thirty? My god, how long have I been sleeping? It was like… one thirty when I sat down in that chair…and I don't remember another thing after John left. And anyway….where_ _ **is**_ _he? Is he helping Mrs. Hudson with her tree? It's awfully quiet down there. Did he decide to stay at Stamford's for dinner? Yes, yes that must be it. But why didn't he call and tell me that? Like he has to, Sherlock, he's a grown man and he can go anywhere he wants and stay as long as he pleases. It's none of your concern. Is it? Do you want it to be?_ _ **Why**_ _do you want it to be? Oh, damn it! I'm_ _ **not**_ _going through_ _ **this**_ _again_!

He got up quickly and headed towards the kitchen, turning on various lights along the way. He found the leftovers from lunch in the fridge and grabbed a scone and the pot of lemon curd. A cup of tea reheated in the microwave completed his supper. He carried everything on a tray back to his easy chair…and turned and looked at John's empty one. He stepped over to it and sat the tray down on the near-by stand. Hesitantly, he reached down and stroked the chair's well-worn arm. He lowered himself into its comfort. The scent of the man enveloped him and he inhaled deeply. It was a mixture of Axe Tobacco and Amber deodorant (curious choice!), antiseptic (no doubt from the clinic), butter (?), and a fourth odor he couldn't…quite…place. It was …manly. And then it hit him just _what_ it was…and he blushed. He sat back as far as he could and looked across at his own seat.

 _What is he thinking when he sits here looking across at me? Does he sit here and think anything of me at all? I wonder if he's ever sorry he moved here in the first place. Never expressed that. Could leave anytime he wants. Doesn't appear to be discontent. Of course, we have our little ups and downs like any other…. Couple. I was going to say couple. You're_ _ **not**_ _a couple Sherlock. You know it's been there though. That thought. In the back of your mind. Simmering….close to boiling once or twice….but you've always managed to suppress….anything. And when?_ _ **When**_ _did you start thinking like this? Alright, maybe there always was….attraction…an.,.interest. But that was subconscious. Of course it was. But_ _ **when**_ _did it start filtering in to your consciousness? When? You_ _ **know**_ _when. It was when you worried about him the first time he didn't come home when he said he would. In July, four months after you first met. It's all there, word for word, thought for thought in your mind palace. It's just a door you take great pains to ignore._

 _STOP THIS!_ Something screamed inside him. He jumped out of the chair and headed downstairs, calling out for Mrs. Hudson on the way.

"No he hasn't been here, dear," the woman shared. "I just assumed things were taking him a little longer than he expected. If he did decide to go to one of those cut-your-own places he may have had to travel a bit to get to one. Have you called the fellow he borrowed the truck from?"

"But it's what now…..six-thirtyish? He might have called if he was going to be late."

"Is this the first time he's ever done this?"

Sherlock ran his hand across his brow and ruffled his hair a bit. Why did Mrs. Hudson have to ask that?

"No…no he's done before, but…oh hell, I just thought with Christmas and having your tree...and ours…and all…. Well, I just expected he'd stick to his schedule. I guess I was wrong. I'll go phone Stamford."

* * *

"Hello, Mike? It's Sherlock. Listen, have you seen John? Hmm…you were wondering too. No and yes he did say five o'clock. I really don't know where he went. He made a list of potential places to buy a tree and he had a couple of those chop-your-own spots on the list, too. No…no I haven't tried his cell. I could do that though, couldn't I? Okay then, if I get in contact with him, or when he arrives home, I'll have him give you a ring. Yes. Okay then. Yes, you have a nice evening too, Mike. Goodbye."

Sherlock grabbed John's laptop and sat at the small table in the living room. He logged on to his website intending to finish his article about the safest way to unthaw frozen blood…but he couldn't type a word. He clicked off the site and, without even thinking, typed in the information that would lead him to John's blog. For all his poo-pooing and negative remarks thrown John's way about it, he was secretly pleased with the whole business. He clicked on to the most current story which was a combination of John reminiscing about Christmases past and of how much he was looking forward to his first one here at 221B with Sherlock.

… _he feigns indifference and says he doesn't really care whether we have a live tree…or any tree… and pretends he has no excitement over the fact that Mrs. Hudson and I intend to decorate both flats to look as festive as possible. He also professes no interest in the exchange of gifts, but I am sure I saw a bit of the boy in him when I mentioned that I knew exactly what I was getting him this season. Those blue eyes of his sparkled in spite of himself, and they lit up much the same as they do when we start a particularly interesting murder case! That, and he's questioned me… several times now…if I prefer cashmere or angora, and practically bit my head off last week when I pulled a box out from behind the sofa inquiring as to why it was there. He nearly knocked me over snatching it from my hands and hastily threw it into his room with the muttered announcement that it was something he was "holding for Mycroft to give to our mum". Okay Sherlock, whatever you say! As I have stated previously, he claims that he is a sociopath and unable to properly and sincerely relate to others. That the idea of any sort of personal relationship (read: girlfriend/boyfriend) is boring and he was totally content living on his own before I came on the scene._

 _So I guess I'm just the flat mate that helps pay the bills. And brings in the clients, and fetches the groceries because he can't be bothered. And worries about him when I can tell he's feeling off…for whatever reason. No, Sherlock Holmes is far from a sociopath whether he wants to believe it or not. In fact, he is one of the most sociable people I know. He cares a great deal about our landlady, Mrs. Hudson and I know he feels some sort of kinship with D.I. Lestrade…though he'd never admit to that. I've seen him be quite gentle with animals and small children. And although he can be inconceivably rude to her at times, I think he has something of a sisterly-type affection for our friend, Molly Hooper, who has been invaluable to us with her position at Bart's morgue._

 _And I live with the man. Time and time again he has proven, through little chats we have and the camaraderie we share, that he cares, In exactly what capacity I'm not sure…as one would care for a brother (hmm…maybe not), a cousin, a close friend?..._

Sherlock could read no further. He logged off and gently closed the lid. It was then he realized that tears were coursing down his cheeks and he quickly wiped them away.

"Where are you John? Come home…please come home. I….I….miss you."

s


End file.
